The morning light is doing that thing again, where it sneaks through the shutters and paints stripes across the floor. I'm lying in my Poblenou flat, listening to the city wake up. It's my last full day in Barcelona. Tomorrow, I'm heading northwest, into the Pyrenees, chasing cooler air and the eclipse. But today? Today is for the city, and for a bit of unfinished business.
I've got my NIE appointment this afternoon. The cita previa, the one I booked what feels like a lifetime ago, is finally here. My paperwork is in a neat folder on the table, all my photocopies and forms. I run through the checklist one more time: passport, application form, proof of address, the bank certificate from CaixaBank. It's all there. I've got about four hours to kill before the appointment, and I know exactly how I want to spend them.
I'm heading to the Eixample. I haven't really given it a proper walk-through, not with the August crowds and the festival chaos. But this morning, it's calm. The superilles, those car-free blocks, are quiet. I grab a coffee at Garage Coffee, a tiny spot near the Passeig de Gràcia. A café con leche, about two euros. The barista knows me now, after the week. She asks if I'm going to the beach. I tell her no, I'm going to the mountains. She laughs, says I'm the only person leaving Barcelona for the Pyrenees in August. I might be.
I walk past Casa Batlló and La Pedrera, all those Gaudí curves and lacy balconies. The queues are just starting to form, the tour groups gathering. I remember when I first saw them, I was one of those tourists, craning my neck. Now I'm just passing through. I'm a resident, or at least I'm becoming one. It's a strange feeling, being both insider and outsider.
The metro is a mess, as always, with all those closures. I decide to walk. It's maybe forty minutes to the Oficina de Extranjería. I've got the route memorized, the streets that avoid the worst of the crowds. I pass through the Gràcia neighborhood, where the Fiesta Mayor was just winding down. The paper lanterns are still up, but the streets are quiet. A few old men are playing cards on a bench in the Plaça del Sol, drinking their morning vermouth.
I've been thinking a lot about this city, about what it means to be here in August. The locals have mostly fled. The city is full of visitors and festival-goers. Circuit, that big LGBTQ+ festival, is apparently taking over the clubs, and there's Brunch Electronik starting at the Parc del Fòrum, with hundreds of DJs. The hotel prices are insane. A night in a mid-range place is running around 180 to 220 euros, up from the spring. But the streets have a different energy. It's like the city is breathing out, and the tourists are just filling the empty spaces.
I stop for a proper sit-down breakfast, a menú del día at a little place near the Universitat. For twelve euros I get coffee, orange juice, a plate of eggs with tomatoes, and a basket of bread. It's a good deal, and it gives me a chance to watch the city go by. The Eixample's sidewalks are wide, and the stone buildings keep the heat off. There's a moment, sitting there, when I feel like I'm part of the fabric. Just another person having their breakfast, reading the paper. It's a nice feeling.
This is the part of the day I've been dreading. The Oficina de Extranjería is a monument to bureaucracy. I've heard stories of people waiting for hours, only to be told their form is wrong. But I'm ready. I've got my folder, my tabbed files, my photocopies. I go in, take a number, and wait. The room is full of people from everywhere, all clutching their paperwork. It's a strange solidarity. We're all just trying to make this city our home.
And then, it happens. The counter opens, my turn. I hand over my folder, and the agent, a woman with kind eyes and a very efficient manner, flips through it. She asks a question, I answer. She stamps something, writes a note, and then she looks up. 'Listo,' she says. Done. My NIE number, my identification as a foreigner in Spain, is being processed. It'll take a few weeks for the card to arrive, but the number is real, I have it written on a piece of paper. It's a small thing, but it feels huge.
I walk out of the office into the August sun, and I can't help but grin. The paperwork that's been hanging over me, the one thing I came here to do, is done. I feel lighter. I call my friend in Poblenou, the one I've been renting from, and tell him the news. He says he's proud of me. I tell him I'll be down to the beach to celebrate.
So I head to the Barceloneta, but not for the beach. I go to the port, where the yachts are bobbing in the harbor. I buy a cold can of beer from a kiosk, about three euros, and sit on the edge of the old port. The gulls are crying, and the smell of salt is in the air. It's here that I remember the eclipse. My friend had mentioned it, and I've got my eclipse glasses in my pocket, the ones I finally found in a pharmacy in Gràcia. The big one is on the 12th, but I'm told there's a partial eclipse visible from the Pyrenees. I'll be there, watching the sky go dark in the middle of the afternoon. It feels like a fitting welcome to the mountains.
For lunch, I go to a place in the Born district, near Santa Maria del Mar. It's called La Lolita Barcelona, and it's got a reputation for good tapas. I order the patatas bravas and a plate of croquettes, and I sit at the bar, watching the cooks work. The plates cost about six euros each, and they're perfect. I'm starting to get the rhythm of this city. The long lunch, the sobremesa, the slow afternoon.
After lunch, I walk it off in Parc de la Ciutadella. The park is full of families, and the pond, where you can go out in a rowboat, is busy. I find a bench in the shade and watch a group of kids trying to get a model sailboat to go in a straight line. It's a good reminder of the other side of Barcelona, the local side, the side that isn't about Gaudí and beaches. It's the side that has a zoo and a museum of science. I could spend a week just in the park, but I have a date with the mountains.
I make one more stop, at the Mercat de Santa Caterina. It's a smaller market, less crowded than the Boqueria, and I pick up some cheese, some olives, and a bottle of cava. I'm not sure how I'm going to carry it on the train tomorrow, but I'll manage. I'm still in the mindset of a visitor, buying souvenirs. But this is different. This is for the journey.
Evening comes, and with it, the last of the day's heat. I'm back in Poblenou, sitting on the terrace of my temporary flat. The fan whirs, and I can hear the distant sound of the beach. I look at my phone, at the weather forecast for the Pyrenees. It's cooler, much cooler. I think about the mountains, about the valleys and the rivers and the sound of cowbells. I'm ready. I've done what I needed to do in the city. I've got my NIE, I've got my bank account, I've got a place to stay for the next month. I've learned how to say 'a café con leche, por favor' and not feel like a fraud.
The last thing I do is check the metro map, but I don't need it anymore. I'm leaving by train, from Estació Sants, and the ticket is already on my phone. I'll take the L5 metro to the station, which is one of the lines that's actually working. It's a small victory.
I close my eyes, and I hear the city. The cicadas are starting their evening chorus. The balcony doors are still open, and the air is warm, but there's a hint of coolness coming in from the sea. Tomorrow, I'll be in the mountains, but tonight, I'm still here. And I'm thinking about what it meant to be here, in this city, in August. It was a strange introduction to Spain, full of heat and noise and crowds. But it was also real. I stood in line for the NIE. I bought a ración of bravas. I watched the sun set over the port. I'm not the same person who stepped off the plane a week ago. I'm becoming a resident, one stamp at a time.
The last thing I do is set my alarm for dawn. I want to see the sun rise the city one last time before I go. I don't sleep much, but that's okay. I'm too excited for what's next. The mountains, the eclipse, the long train ride west. Tonight, Barcelona, and all its August madness, is behind me. Tomorrow, I start chasing the green north.
I'm closing the door on this chapter. The NIE is done. The bank account is open. The August city has been walked, eaten, and understood. Now I'm going where the country itself goes to escape the heat. It's time to trade the city's buzz for the sound of a river. Hasta luego, Barcelona. I'll be back.
And that's the plan. I'm on the train tomorrow, heading northwest, with a rented room in a village called Sort, or maybe it's Guàrdia de Noguera, I can't remember. I'll find out. I've got a few more hours of sleep in me, but not many. The mountains are calling. See you on the other side.
Goodnight, Barcelona. And gracias por todo. It's been one hell of a first week.